Chapter VI: Part 6

"I had but one thought--Mother. I sent the children home--my work with them was done. Now I could go to _her_, and with a sprig of laurel to lay upon my brow, could silence stinging tongues while I worked quietly on at home. Home! never would I leave its blessed roof again. Oh, how my longing heart hurried my laggard feet. I did not write; no pen should cheat my tongue of the blessed story. I wished to feel her arms, see her smile, catch her heart-beat while I told her. God! I whispered His name softly in gratitude and love. I planned my surprise well, but I was doomed to disappointment. It was midnight when I reached the town; the streets were silent and no one spoke to me. 'Some one must have told her,' I said, as the hack in which I rode drew up before the door, and I saw the house was lighted; every window was wide open; and her room, where I, a child, had learned my woman's lesson, was filled with people. Solemn, sitting folk; it was not a jubilee at all. 'She is sick,' I gasped, as my trembling fingers sought the gate latch. No, I saw her bed, the bed where I had nestled in her arms for eighteen years. It was white and stiff in its familiar drapings. I tore the gate ajar and bounded up the steps. My youngest sister met me in the doorway, weeping. I brushed her aside and passed in among the friendly neighbors who had hurried out on my arrival. I felt, but scarcely saw them as I said: 'I want my mother.' Then some one burst in tears and pointed to the open parlor door. Merciless heaven! resting upon two chairs stood a long, brown box; a coffin. I gave one shriek, so wild, so full of agony that not one who heard it stayed to offer the hollow mockery of comfort. 'Merciful God! not my mother?'

"But it was. I never saw her face again. I would not look on it in death; that face which had been my life. But I love to think I have her presence with me here, together with her teaching, in my bosom. And with her help, for the dear dead always help us, I am working out my destiny after the pattern she set me. It is a _hard_ task; grows harder every day; but I am young yet, and strong."

Poor child. She did not know the _dangers_ of the road she travelled; she only knew its hardships. Day after day she toiled, hopeful even in failure. The bloom left her cheek; but faith still fired her eye. One day she put away her manuscript, and left the house. The next day she returned. She had been to ask for her old place in the cabin schoolhouse. Too late; the place was filled. She sought one of her mother's friends and asked for work, copying. She returned with white face and set lip, and a look of horror in her eyes. I understood. God help the poor, the respectable poor, those starvelings who cannot rise to independence and cannot sink to vileness. And oh, I prayed, God pity her,--my Claudia.

I watched her struggles with my own power palsied by that same old curse, poverty. She did her best; her struggles were torture to me even when she smiled and met them with sweet faith in her own strength and God's goodness. She never once murmured, although I knew that many a night she had gone hungry to her desk, and rose from it, hungry still, at dawn.

And oh, when hope began to die, I saw it all; saw it in the weary eyes; heard it in the step that lagging past my door, climbed to its task, its hopeless task, again. I saw it in the cheek where hunger,--the hunger of the common herd--had set its fangs upon the delicate bloom. To ask for bread meant to receive a stone, a stone like unto the stones cast at her, that one in old Jerusalem. Perhaps she hungered too; who dares judge, since Christ himself refused to condemn.

She tried at shops at last, but no man wanted modest Quaker maids to measure off their goods. The shop-girl's smile was part and parcel of the bargain, and if the smile beguiled a serpent in man's clothing, why the girl must look to that.

One night I sought her room, her tidy little nest--my poor solitary birdling--and found her at her work, her old task of writing. She had gone back to it. There were rings about the eyes where tears were forbidden visitors. I took the poor head in my arms.

"Don't, Claudia," I cried. "The youth is all gone from your face." "That's right," she said. "It left my heart long ago, and face and heart should have a common correspondence."

And then she laughed, as if to cheat my old ears with the sound of merriment.

"I needed stamps," she said. "The question rested, stamps _vs._ supper. Like a true artist I made my choice for art. But see here. That manuscript when it is finished, means _no more hunger_. Something tells me it will succeed, and save me. So I have called it _Refuge_, and on it I have staked my last hope."

She playfully tapped the tidy page, and laughed again. But her words had a solemn earnestness about them to which her pale pinched face lent something still of awe.

Day after day I watched her, as day after day the battle became too much for her. Too much? I spoke too quickly when I said so. She was a mystery to me. I felt but could not understand her life, and its grand, heart-breaking changes. She had planned for something which she could not reach. The doors to it were closed. Her starving woman's soul called for food; the husks were offered in its stead; the bestial, grovelling, brutish swine's husks. She refused them. Her soul would make no compromise with swine. She was so strong, and _had_ been so full of hope I could not understand her. You who have studied the tricks of the human heart, you who have held your own while faith died in your bosom, or you who have felt it stabbed and crushed _refuse_ to die, perhaps you can understand that strange and fitful strength that came and went; that outburst of hope, that silence of despair which made, in turn, my dear one's torture.

One night I found her sitting in the moonlight with her face dropped forward on the windowsill. So pure, so white, so frail of body, and so strong of soul, she might have been some marble priestess waiting there for God's breath to move in passion through the pulseless stone.

"Claudia, dear, are you asleep?" I whispered.

"No, I was thinking if the moon would ever shine upon the night when I shall feel no more the pangs of hunger."

I took her in my arms and wept, although her eyes were strangely tearless. She put out her hand and stroked away my tears.

"Don't, dear," she begged. "It is all right. It is only that there is no place for me. The niche I wish to fill has never been chiseled in the wall of this world's matters. It is God's mistake if one is made, and God must look to it. I tell you, Gertie," and she rose up grandly in her pride and in her wrath, "there are but two niches made for woman in this world. There's but one choice, wife or harlot. The poor, who refuse still to be vile, must step aside, since honest poverty by man's decree is but a myth. There's no room in this world for such."

She was growing bitter, bitter, driving on, I thought, to that fatal rock from which the wrecks of lost women cry back to rail at God who would not save them from destruction, although they prayed aloud and shrieked their agony up heavenward, straight to His ears. I think sometimes I should not like to sit in God's stead when such women come to face His judgment. Women who called, and called, and never had an answer, and so went down, still calling.

It was thus _she_ called.

One day I came upon her where she had thrown herself upon a little garden stool to rest. A book lay on her knee, her eyes upon the page; and as I listened, for she read aloud, slowly, as when one reads to his own heart, I caught the meaning of the poet's words as they had found interpretation by her:--

"'For each man deems his own sand-house secure,
While life's wild waves are lulled; yet who can say,
If yet his faith's foundations do endure,
It is not that no wind hath blown that way?'"

She was silent a moment, then repeated the first line of the stanza again, even more softly than before,

"'For each man deems his own sand-house secure.'"

Then, tossing the book aside, she burst out wildly, all the pent-up patience, all the insulted and outraged womanhood within her, breaking bonds at last. She lifted up her hand as if calling down from God a curse, or offering at His register an oath. It might have been an oath, indeed; who knows? Thinking of her since I think it _was_ an oath, made, in that moment of her frenzy, betwixt her soul and God, and registered with Him.

"Gertie," she said, "to-day a man offered me money. Offered me all I asked, offered to make me his mistress. Do you hear? Do you? or has your soul gone deaf as mine has? His mistress! I meet it everywhere. Yet why? Because I am respectably poor. To-morrow the roof tumbles about my ears. The mortgage closes. You and I alike are homeless. I went to him, my father's friend, to whom, in dying, he entrusted me for guidance. I begged of him that guidance, or, at the least, a little longer time upon the mortgage. He laughed. 'Don't worry,' said he, 'and don't soil your pretty hands with ink stains any further. Leave that for the printer, or the devil. You and I will make an _easier_ trade.' Ease! ease! I tell you 'tis these flowery beds of ease on which poor suffocated women wake in hell. 'Soil' my soul and leave that for the 'devil,' too, his trade meant. He put it in plain words, that gray-haired _guardian_ of a dead friend's honor. Ease! _I_ did not ask for ease, but work. I am strong, and young, and willing; but my 'sand-house' trembles with the lashing of the tide on its foundation. O my God! what fools we women be to kick against the pricks of fate."

"Each man deems his own sand-house secure."

I repeated the words when she had left me there with the echo of her bitter rebellious words still ringing in my ears. I felt no anger and no fear for her, only sorrow, sorrow. My poor, proud darling. Her father's house had sheltered many; his hand had been open and his bounty free. And yet not one reached out a hand to her. She might have begged, or held a hireling's place. She was 'not too good for it,' the old friends said (so few are friends to poverty), but yet none found such a place for her.

Through my tears I saw her go down the garden walk, stopping to pluck a handful of the large Jack roses growing near the gate and tuck them in her belt, so that the dullish red blooms lay upon her heart, like blots of blood against her soft white dress. I shuddered, and drew my hand across my eyes. Blood! those old blood-roses rise before me now, in dreams at night. I heard the latch lift and click again into its place, and when I looked the child was gone.

* * * * *

She stayed a long while. Over all the garden and across the open windows, the moon was shining when I heard her step upon the doorway. It had a weary sound. Those feet which had begun so bravely were tired out already. Still had I no fear for her. She might have stayed until the gray dawn cleft the black of night and not one doubt of her could sting my faith. She climbed the stairs wearily, as if old age had of a sudden caught and cramped the young life in her feet; and listening thus I swore a mighty oath against the thing called Fate.

She so young, so strong, so willing, so full of aspiration, so loyal to faith and honor, with _every_ door barred against her. O my God! was there none, not one human heart open to her cry? Was there but one resource--one opening for her pure soul and her proud heart--the harlot's door? O my God! my God! women are driven to it every day, every day. Is it, indeed, the only door that opens to their knock? And would she, too, seek it at last, when faith should be quite dead? No, never! not while my palsied fingers could find strength to draw a knife across her throat.

I arose, and went to find her in her room. The door stood slightly open, and I entered, softly. Why so softly, I never could have told; only it seemed the proper thing to do. She had thrown herself across the bed, near by the open window. The moonlight flooded the room, showing me the strong, pale face lying against the pillow. Her white dress fell about her like a silverish shroud; and on the table near the window where she had sat to finish her task lay a manuscript. The moonlight fell upon the title page with mocking splendor. I stooped and read:

"'_Thou art our Refuge and our Strength._'"

Dear heart! dear, sad soul! She had sought her refuge and indeed found strength. Strength! I brand him liar who calls it other.

One hand lay on the coverlid beside her, and one upon her breast half hidden by the dark blood-roses covering her heart. And that heart when I placed my hand over it--was still.

_Broken!_ who dares say _suicide_? I say it was the grandest blow that weakness struck for virtue,--her life, offered in the name of outraged womanhood. The choice lay open. Shame or suicide! and like the real woman that she was, she made her choice for virtue. Conquered by fate, overcome by adversity, those who should have been helpers turned tempters. Who dares meet God in his soul and say she did not choose the better part?

"'Thou art our Refuge and our Strength.'"

I whispered it above her grave and left her there, under the stars and broken lily buds.

But when the grand Jack roses bloom, I always think of her, and thinking, I ponder again the same old riddle, _Fate_, whose edict swears, "No room for honest poverty; no niche for such as she." And thinking thus I wonder,--where shall the blame rest? Whose shall the crime be?

THE HEIRESS OF THE RIDGE.

NO-NAME PAPER.

The "Ridger" is quite a different person from the Mountaineer. He looks upon the latter individual as a sodden and benighted unfortunate, whose inaccessible habitation entitles him to the pity of the favored dwellers on the "Ridge."

That the Ridge is but a low out-put of the Mountain, that it is barren and isolated, does not disturb the comfortable theory of its inhabitants. To the people of the Valley the Ridger is a twin brother of the owner of the hut on the top-most peak of the range.

They look alike. Their bearing and habits are similar. To the Valley eye their clothes are of the same material and cut; but to the Ridger himself there is as wide a difference between him and his less favored brother on the "mounting" as that to be found by the stroller on Fifth Avenue when he gazes with profound contempt upon the egotistic biped who plainly hopes to deceive the elect into a belief that he, also, belongs to the charmed circle and has not simply "run over" from Jersey City, or St. Louis, or New Bedford.

The Mountaineer is frequently a Tunker, the Ridger rarely. Therefore the Ridger is likely to have a shaven face, and, for the younger contingent, a mustache is the rule, a "goatee" the fashion. To the Tunker none of these are permissible. The beard may not be cut, a mustache may not be worn, and, with the first of these propositions in force it will be seen at once that "a goatee" is quite out of the question.

When I say that the Ridger is likely to have a shaven face I do not intend to convey the impression that he ever uses a razor. He shaves his face with the scissors. His Tunker neighbor up the mountain performs the same feat on his own upper lip. The result is effective and satisfactory from both a religious and artistic outlook in the eyes of these sticklers for fashion and dogma, albeit, it might be looked upon as more or less disappointing by the habitués of the Union League Club or the devotees at St. Thomas.

If the rivet, which at some previous date had held the two halves of the scissors together, happens to be lost, or if it has worn so loose that these members "do not speak as they pass by," a jack knife or even a butcher's knife is no stranger to the tonsorial process of these followers of the elusive god of style.

I do not know that I have ever met a Tunker so lost to a deep sense of religious duty, or a Ridger sufficiently devoid of the pride of personal appearance, that he would "go to town" without having first performed this rite.

It is a serious business.

In the house of my old friend Jeb Hilson there had once been a "lookin' glass" of no mean proportions, if those of his neighbors may be taken as the standard, and how else do we measure elegance or style? It had occupied a black frame, and a position on the wall directly over a "toilet," which was the most conspicuous piece of furniture in the room. At the present time there was nothing to tell the tale but a large nail (from which hung a bunch of seed onions,) and the smoked outline of something which had been nearly fourteen inches long and not far from the same width. In front of this drab outline Jeb Hilson always stood to shave. His memory was so tenacious that I never observed that he noticed the absence of the glass. He gazed steadily at the wall and worked the scissors so deftly that the stubble rained in little showers upon the top of the "toilet" and within the open bosom of his tennis shirt. Not that Jeb Hilson ever heard of tennis, or knew that he was clad in a garment of so approved a metropolitan style and make; but that was the pattern he had worn for many years, and it was the one which his women folk were best able to reproduce. His flannel ones were gray, and his trousers were belted about with a leather strap. For full dress occasions he wore a white cotton shirt of the same pattern and a brown homespun vest. This latter garment was seldom buttoned. Why hide the glory of that shirt? If Jeb owned a coat I have never seen it. He appeared to think it a useless garment.

I believe I did not say that Jeb Hilson was the leader of those who eschewed all hair upon the face. Whether this was done to show a profounder contempt for the Tunker superstition, or whether Jeb had a secret pride in the outline of his mouth and chin, and a desire to give full expression to their best effects, it would be hard to say. It is certain, however, that his motives must have been powerful, for he underwent untold torture to achieve his results. If the blades of the scissors clicked past each other or wabbled apart too far to even click, Jeb would resort to his knife and proceed to saw off the offending beard.

"Hit air saw off er chaw off," he would remark laconically, as he tried first one implement and then the other. "I wisht ter gracious thet theer scisser leg'd stay whar't war put; but Lide trum the grape vines with 'em las' week an' they is wus sprung then they wus befo'. But wimmen folks is all durn fools. I'd be right down glad ef the good Lord had a saw fit ter give 'em a mite er sense. Some folks sez it would er spilt 'em, but I'm blame ef I kin see how they could er been wus spilt than the way they is fixed now."

He gazed intently at the smoked image on the wall, and collecting, between his thumb and finger, a pinch of hair on his upper lip began to saw at it with his knife. His large yellow teeth were displayed, and the appearance of a beak was so effectively presented by the protruded lip that words came from behind it with the uncanny sound of a parrot; but it did not occur to him to cease talking.

"I fromised" (his upper lip was drawn too far out to form the letter p, or any with like requirements), "I fromised the young 'squire ter be at the cote house ter day, an' I tole him thet I'd ast the jedge fer ter 'fint a gyardeen fer thet theer _de_mented widder uv Ike's."

He grasped a fresh bunch of stubble, shifted onto the other foot, turned the side of his face to the smoked image of the one time mirror, and rolled his eyes so that in case a glass had hung there he might have been able to see one inch from his left ear. The shaving went steadily on. So did the conversation.

"Ef I don't make considdable much hase I'm gwine ter be late, an' ef the jedge don't 'pint a gyardeen fer thet theer Sabriny she's goin' fer ter squander the hull uv her proppity. Thet theer wuthless Lige Tummun is goin' fer ter git the hull uv hit. Thet's thes persisely what he's a figgerin' fer in my erpinion. He hev thes persuaged her fer ter let him hev the han'lin uv hit, an' she air a goin' ter live thar fer the res'er her days; but I'd thes like ter know what's a goin' ter hinder him fum a bouncin' her thes es soon es he onct gits holt er the hull er thet theer proppity. An' then whose a goin' ter take keer uv her? Nobody air a hankerin' fer ter take keer uv a _de_mented widder woman onless she air got proppity. But I hain't a wantin' ter say much, fer they is folks mean enough ter up an' think I mout be a try'n ter git holt er thet proppity myse'f, an' have the han'lin uv hit; so I thes tole the young 'squire abouten hit, an' he thes rec'mended me fer ter thes go ter town nex' cote day an' erply ter the jedge fer ter 'pint a gyardeen over Sabriny."

The shaving was finished at last and the homespun "weskit" donned. He stood in front of the smoked reminder while he performed this latter feat, and, after staring intently at the wall, appeared to be perfectly content with the result. Then he trudged away and joined the innumerable host which would as soon think of staying away from town on court day as it would think of standing on its head to pray.

All Ridgers of the masculine gender went to town on court day, and as few Valley men failed to do the same--whether because they knew it would be a good chance to see everybody in the county and talk politics, or because few men were so destitute as to be without lawsuits of their own,--certain it is that they all went and that it furnished topics of conversation which lasted until court day rolled around again.

As I was a guest at the "young 'squire's" house I was privileged to hear on the following day some further conversation on the subject of Sabriny's guardian. I was sitting on the front porch with the sweet and simple-hearted mother of the young 'squire when Jeb Hilson's lithe form appeared.

Jeb was still in full dress. The fronts of his vest hung beneath his long arms as he walked, and he wore his white cotton shirt, somewhat the worse for its "Cote Day" experiences, it must be confessed. On his head was one of those delightfully soft straw hats which the young men of the valley buy by the dozen for fifty cents, wear until they get damp, or for some other reason droop about the face and head like a "Havelock," and then cast aside for a new one. But a Ridger does not pay out five cents recklessly. One of these straw coverings must last him all summer. But for all that a Ridger must see, and therefore the front of the drooping brim is sacrificed to stern necessity when it can no longer be kept off of the face. The effect is unique. A soft straw crown, run to a peak; a pendant wide brim touching the back and shoulders; a few "frazzles" of straw on the forehead which tell where a brim once was; for the Ridger cuts the front out with the same scissors or knife with which he shaves, and with no more accuracy of outline. The young farmers wear these broad straw hats to protect their faces and eyes from the down-beating sun. The Ridger appears to wear them purely for ornament, since the only protection which they offer in their new shape is to the back of necks already so wrinkled and tanned that even a Virginia sun could hardly penetrate to a discomforting degree.

Jeb nodded to me. Then he took his straw ornament by the top of the peak and lifted it high above his head, so that he could bring it forward without scraping his hair, and "made his manners" to the young "'squire's" mother. He seated himself on the upper step of the wide gallery, crossed his long legs, placed his straw ornament carefully on his knee, with the pendant portion falling toward his foot, and began a bit of diplomatic manoeuvring.

"Howdy, Miss Brady, howdy. I hope yo' health is tollible. I thes thought I'd like t' see the young 'squire. Air he in? Hit air thes a leetle bisness matter twixt him an' me, thes a leetle matter uv mo' er _less_ intrust' t' us both."

But the young 'squire was not at home. His mother indicated a willingness to convey any message to him upon his return; but Jeb, always contemptuous of women, was in a state of elusive subtlety. Someone in town had lent wings to his already abnormally developed caution in the matter of the application for the appointment of the "gyardeen" for his weak-minded sister-in-law, and had hinted that he might have to swear to her mental condition if he became the sponsor for such a move. Jeb was wily. He had tasted of his brother's wife's wrath on more occasions than one, and whatever his opinion may have been of the strength of her mind, he entertained no doubts as to the vigor of her temper when it was aroused. Jeb wanted to be appointed her "gyardeen." He looked upon the "proppity" as a vast and important financial trust. If he asked the judge to appoint a guardian, and Sabriny knew that he had said that she was of defective intellect--well--Jeb would face much to be allowed to handle that $134.92. (This was the "proppity" in question. It was a "back" pension and there was to be $2.11 per month henceforth.) But Jeb was not foolhardy, and he had trudged back from town without having done what the young "'squire" had advised, and Sabriny's "proppity" was in jeopardy still.

"No," he said, wagging his head and looking slyly at the young 'squire's mother. "No, I thes wanted ter see the young 'squire fer a leetle private talk. I thes promised him fer ter do sompin, an' then I never done it. Not as he'd _keer_; but I thes wanted ter make my part fa'r an' squar'."

He espied a straw that had straggled out from the ragged cut in the front of his hat. He took it firmly between thumb and finger and gave it a quick sidewise jerk, whereupon it parted company forever with its fellows. Jeb inserted this between two of his lower front teeth at their very base. When it was firmly established he continued his conversation, leaving his lower lip to struggle in vain to regain a position of horizontal dignity. The straw was tenacious, and the lip was held at bay. He did not want to tell his story to anyone but the young 'squire; but an opportunity to display his mental vigor and business acumen to the 'squire's mother did not present itself every day, and might he not tell the tale, and yet not tell it? Could he not give an outline and still conceal his own motives and desires? Certainly. Women were very weak minded at best, and even the young 'squire's mother would not be able to sound the depths of his subtle nature.

"The young 'squire, he tole me fer ter ast the jedge ter 'pint a gyardeen over the proppity o' Sabriny, along o' her beein'--thet is ter say--_wimmen_ bein' incompertent ter--thet is, Miss Brady, _mose_ wimmen not havin' the 'bility fer ter hannel a large proppity--even if they is--. I aint sayin' that Sabriny is diff'nt fum mose wimmen, you mine. They is folks thet say her mine is--thet she aint adzackly right in her head; but lawsy, _I_ aint sayin' thet; an' you mus' know thet wimmin' aint in no way fit fer ter manage a proppity--a large proppity---more especial if they is any man a-tryin' fer ter git hit away frum 'em."

"Why, is anybody trying to get poor Sabriny's money, Jeb?" asked the young 'squire's mother in sympathetic wonder.

But Jeb had been warned that he would better not commit himself if he hoped for fair sailing. He turned his straw over and put the stiff end between his teeth again, glanced covertly about, concluded that the lady was not setting a trap for him, and began again.

"I aint a sayin' as they is, an' I aint a swarin' thet they aint. Mebby you mout o' heard uv Lige Tummun?"

"Yes, I have heard that he is a trifling fellow," said the young 'squire's mother. "I hope there is no way he can get Sabriny's little pension."

"I aint a sayin' nothin' agin' _Lige_," said Jeb, with wily inflection which said all things against that luckless wight. "I aint sayin' nothing' _agin_ Lige, an' I aint sayin' thet he wants ter git hole uv Sabriny fer ter git her proppity; but he hev drawed up a paper, an' she hev sign hit, fer ter live with him an' his ole 'oman the res' er her days fer, an' in consideration, uv the hull uv thet back pension _down_, en half--er as near half as $2.11 kin be halft,--every month whilse she live; an' he bines hisself fer ter feed, an' cloth, an pervide fer her so long as they both do live, by an' accordin' ter the terms uv thet theer paper he hed draw'd up and Sabriny hev sign."

"Too bad, too bad," said the young 'squire's mother; "but the judge will appoint you, don't you think, since she is weak-minded, and Lige is so unreliable? Poor Sabriny would have very little comfort in that torn-down hut I'm afraid. Did the judge say he would see to it?"

Jeb took the straw from between his teeth, and his lip resumed its normal position. He turned and twisted, seated himself on the lower step, and readjusted his hat on his knee. Then he went on:--

"I aint sayin' I _want_ ter be 'pinted her gyardeen. Thet air fer the jedge ter say, pervided somebody er other fetch the needcessity ter his mine befo' all thet proppity air squandered. I haint sayin' that Sabriny air weak-minded, nuther--thet is weakmindeder then thet she air a--she hev the mine uv a female, an' nachully not able ter hannel proppity. An' I haint sayin' she aint gettin' mighty well took keer uv by Lige, nuther. The last time I war theer she war roolin' the roost. She slep' in the bes' bed, an' et offen the bes' plate, an' had the bes' corn dodger an' shote; but what I air--that is what _some_ air thinkin' about air whence Lige onct gits the hull er thet proppity in bulk, air hit goin' ter be thet away? Mine you, _I_ aint asten this yer question; but they is them thet does, an' whilse they does hit do seem only right an' proper fer hit ter be looked inter by the proper 'thorities. Now I tole the young 'squire thet I'd lay the hull caste befo' the jedge las' cote day, but the fack air that whence I git theer I met up with a few er my bisness erquaintainces an' on _re_flection I made up my mine thet I bes' thes say nothin' to the jedge. Thet's what I kem ter tell the young 'squire so's he won't ercuse me in his mine er lyin' ter 'im whence he fine out thet I never tole the jedge. They was reasons--numbrous and gineral reasons--fer me ter _re_fleck an' _re_track my plan."

He reflected for a moment now, and then lifting his hat by the peak, turned it around, raised it high over his head, carried it back and put it on; then from its mutilated front just above his eyebrow he snipped off, with a deft jerk, another straw and started down the steps.

"They is some thet say Sabriny hev a temper thet don't stop ter be lit up, Miss Brady, but lawsy, _I_ haint sayin' nothing agin' Sabriny's temper, ner agin' Lige, ner nobody. Some folks will talk thet away. You can't stop 'em long es they's 'live en kickin'; but _I_ got mighty little ter say."

There was a long pause. Then with studied indifference of inflection he continued:--

"I reckon my leetle bisness with the young 'squire kin wait without mouldin' over night. I thes reckon hit wouldn't be edzackly bes' fer ter discuss hit with nobody else," and he inserted the straw between his teeth with great care and precision, and took his high stepping way toward the Ridge, secure in his self-esteem and approbation in that not even the wiles of a lady of the position of the young 'squire's mother could betray him into divulging his secret. For, after all, she was but a woman, and--well--this whole matter was a question of "proppity," and therefore quite beyond her capacity.

As he disappeared over the hill, his straw havelock flapping gently in the wind, and his vest spread wide against his pendent arms, the young 'squire's mother laughed gently and said:--

"Poor Sabrina, she _is_ a little weaker minded than Jeb, and Jeb is a kind soul in his way. We must let the judge know the trouble, and see if some honest and capable person cannot be found to handle that 'proppity' and not squander, too recklessly, the two dollars and eleven cents in the months that are to come. The life of an heiress is, indeed, beset with pitfalls even among the Ridgers."

THE BROOK.

BY P. H. S.

I love the gentle music of the brook,
Its solitary, meditative song.
On every hill
Some stream has birth,
Some lyric rill,
To wake the selfish earth,
And smile and toss the heavens their shining look,
Repeat and every flash of life prolong.
In spite of play,
Along its cheerful way
It turns to rest beneath some sheltering tree
In richer beauty;
Or at call of duty
Leaps forth into a cry of ecstacy,
And sings that work is best,
In brighter colors drest
Runs on its way,
Nor longer wills to stay
Than but to see itself that it is fair,--
Thou happy brook, true brother to the air.

I fear the steady death-roar of the sea,
Its sullen, never-changing undertone;
Round all the land
It clasps its heavy strength,
A liquid band
Of world-unending length,
And ever chants a wild monotony,
A change between a low cry and a moan.
The earth is glad,
The sea alone is sad;
Its swelling surge it rolls against the shore
In mammoth anger;
Or, in weary languor,
Beaten, it whines that it can rage no more,
And sinks to treacherous rest,
While from the happy west
The sun is glad;
The sea alone is sad.
Its voice has messages nor words for me,
All, all is pitched in one low minor key.

Then take my heart upon thy dancing stream,
O tiny brook, thou bearest my heart away.
Run gently past
The breaking of the stones,
Nor yet too fast;
And on thy perfect tones
Bear thou my discord life that I may seem
A harmony for one short hour to-day.
Why wilt thou, brook,
Not check thy forward look?
Why wilt thou, brook, not make my heart thine own?
The wild commotion
Of the frantic ocean
Will madden thee and drown thy sorry moan,
And none will hear the cry;
Then run more slowly by--
Nay, for this nook
Was made for thee, my brook,
Stay with me here beneath this silver shade
And think this day for thee and me was made.

Thy present sweetness will be turned to brine;
Thou'lt hardly make one petty, paltry wave.
Lovest thou the sun?
He will not know thee there.
Is't sweet to run,
Know thine own whence and where?
'Tis here thy joy, thy love, thy life are thine;
There thou wilt neither be, nor do, nor have.
The mighty sea
Will blindly number thee
To bear the ships, send thee to shape the shore
That thou art scorning;
Or some awful morning,
Set thee to pluck some sailor from his oar
And drink his weary life;
O fear this chance of strife!
Or what may be
Else, dead monotony.
Give o'er thy headlong haste, dwell here with me,
Why lose thyself in the vast, hungry sea?

These thoughts I cast into the wiser stream,
And lay and heard it run the hours away;
And then above
The beauty and the peace,
It sang of love;
And in that glad release
I knew my thoughts had run beyond my dream,
Had seen the laboring river and the bay.
"'Tis joy to run!
Else life would ne'er be done,
I ne'er should know the triumphing of death,
Nor its revealing;
Nor the eager feeling
Of fuller life, the promise of the breath
That fleets the open sea:
All this was given to me
Once as I won
My first great leap; the sun
I knew my king, and laughed, and since that day
I run and sing; he wills, and I obey."

EDITORIAL NOTES.

OPTIMISM, REAL AND FALSE.

Much has been written of late about the pessimistic spirit pervading modern reformative literature. When an earnest writer presents a gloomy picture of life as it really is, he is frequently judged by that most shallow of all standards, "Is it pleasing or amusing?" His fidelity to the ideal of truth is often overlooked or dismissed with a flippant word. We all know that great and dangerous evils exist and menace our civilization. They are growing under the fostering influence of the "conspiracy of silence"; yet we are seriously informed that we must not expose them to view; that there is so much tragedy in real life that society should not be annoyed by sombre pictures in fiction or the drama. "Prophesy to us smooth things or hold thy peace," is the tenor of much of the criticism of the hour. Optimism is at present a popular Shibboleth, hence many thoughtlessly echo the cry against every exposure of growing evils. Writers who are popularly known as optimists belong mainly to three classes. Those who after a general survey of life become thorough pessimists, believing that the social, economic, religious, and ethical problems can never be justly or equitably solved; that in the weary age long struggle of right against might, of justice against greed, of liberty against slavery, of truth against error, the baser will win the battle, because there is more evil than good present in the world, and therefore, it being useless to break with the established order, assume a cheerful tone, crying down all efforts to unmask the widespread and ever-increasing evils which are festering under the cover of silence, and in substance urge us to eat, drink, and be merry, taking no thought for the morrow or for the generations which are to follow us.

A second class, comparing the ignorance, superstition, brutality, and inhumanity of the past with life to-day, arrive at the conclusion that the nineteenth century is the flower of all the preceding ages, which is true. That the present, registering the high-tide water-mark of the centuries, is to be extolled rather than assaulted, and all efforts to create discontent are unwise, and should be frowned upon. The mistake of these individuals lies in the fact that they fail to see that the chief cause of humanity's triumphs is found in the works performed by those thinkers who in all ages have corresponded to the persons flippantly characterized pessimists at the present time: they who have assailed the existing order of things, who have thrown into the congregation of the people the shells of doubt; who have confronted the priests and potentates of conventionalism with a disturbing "Why"; _who have compelled the people to think_.

A third class of writers who pitch their thoughts in a hopeful key, appreciate the injustice of much that is accepted by conventional thought as right, or which is tolerated by virtue of its antiquity, but seeing the profound agitation which a thoughtful and earnest presentation of the evils of the hour produces in the public mind, they have become alarmed, fearing lest the rising tide of angry discontent sweep away much that is good, true, and beautiful, in its blind attempt to right existing wrongs, and inaugurate an era of justice. Old institutions, ancient and revered thought, accepted lines of policy, even when palpably unjust, are safer, they urge, than the sudden blinding light of justice, the instantaneous widening of the horizon of popular thought. The strong light of a new era thrown suddenly upon the foul, monstrous and iniquitous systems in vogue, the awakening of the public mind to the enormity of the injustice, hypocrisy, and immorality of respectable conservatism of to-day will turn the brain of the people--they will become mad; a second French Revolution will ensue--such is their fear, and from a superficial view their apprehensions seem reasonable. Their error lies in the fact that the horrors of the French Revolution were the legitimate result of a policy exactly analogous to what they are pursuing. It arose from _justice long deferred; from wrongs endured for generations. It was the concentrated wrath_ of the people who for many decades had been oppressed by Church, by nobility, and by the crown. Though the motives are entirely different, these writers, in striving to procrastinate the feud of justice against entrenched power and established customs, are acting on the lines of Louis XV., who, when told that a revolution would burst forth in France, inquired, "How many years hence?" "Fifteen or twenty, sire," was the reply. "Well, I shall be dead then; let my successor look out for that." So in seeking to put off just and rightful demands, these short-sighted philosophers lose sight of the fact that the longer justice is exiled from the throne of power, the more terrible will be the reckoning when it comes. Yet history teaches no lesson more impressively, unless it be that a question involving justice once raised will never be settled until right has been vindicated.

Those reformers, on the other hand, who have been popularly credited with sounding a pessimistic note in all their writings, by virtue of their fidelity to actual conditions and prevailing customs, are chiefly optimists in the truest sense of the word. They are men and women who believe profoundly in the triumph of right, liberty, and justice. Their faces are set toward the morning. The glorious ideals that float before and beyond the present have beamed upon their earnest gaze. They have traced the ascent of humanity through the ages; they have noted the slow march, the weary struggle from age to age of the old against the new, of dawn against night, of progress against conservatism, but they have also seen that the trend has been onward and upward, and what is far more important, they have noted that the prophets, sages, and reformers,--in a word, the advance guard, who have blazed the pathway and opened the vista to broader and nobler conceptions of justice and liberty, have been those who have assailed the popular conventionality of their times; who have been denounced as enemies to social order, as dangerous pessimists and wreckers of civilization. But they have also observed that these honest and far-sighted spirits have set in motion the thought that has borne humanity upward into a more radiant estate. Furthermore, they realize that only by a fearless denunciation of existing evils, by faithful though gloomy pictures of life _as it is_, by raising the interrogation point after every wrong or unjust condition sanctioned by virtue of its antiquity and conservatism and by appealing to the reason and conscience of the people has humanity been elevated. They have studied the problem of human progress profoundly; they have strong faith in the triumph of justice, but they realize that victory can never be attained as long as conventionalism lulls to sleep the public conscience. They know that only by bringing the truth effectively before the people, only by raising questions and stimulating the mind can reforms be inaugurated. The present calls for honest thought, for true pictures, for brave and earnest agitators. Give us these, and humanity will soon take another of those great epoch making strides which at intervals have marked the ascent of man.

THE PESSIMISTIC CAST OF MODERN THOUGHT.

Much of the best thought of to-day necessarily takes on a gloomy cast, because the most wise and earnest reformers keenly realize the giant wrongs that oppress humanity. They see the splendid possibilities floating before mankind, even within the grasp of the rising generation, if the heralds of the coming day are courageous and persistent; if they sink all hope of popularity, all thought of self-interest; if they are loyal to their highest impulses, regardless of what may follow.

_The era of the questioner has arrived._ Soon mankind will refuse to accept anything simply because others believed it. Traditions and ancient thought, though weighed down with credentials of past ages or dead civilizations, will be cast aside. All problems will be weighed in the scales of the broader conception of justice which is daily growing in the mind of man. The twilight is passing, the dawn is upon us, and to-morrow will be indebted chiefly to these true brave men and women whom the superficial call pessimists, for the glorious heritage which will fall to humanity; for they are related to the manifold reforms which crowd upon the present, as were Copernicus and Galileo related to the science of astronomy, as Luther was to the Reformation, Jefferson to modern Democracy, as Wilberforce in England and Garrison in America to the overthrow of black slavery. They denounce the iniquity of the present hour; they unmask the carefully concealed evils which are undermining public morals; they demand a higher standard of life. If they aim to destroy the old wooden building, it is because they see around them not only the quarried stone, the mortar and iron beams, but a million hands waiting to erect upon the ruins of the old a nobler structure than humanity has yet beheld.

Transcriber's Note: The page numbers in the Table of Contents
have been converted to issues in the following way:

Issue Pages
June, 1891 1-128
July, 1891 129-256
August, 1891 257-384
September, 1891 385-512
October, 1891 513-640
November, 1891 641-768
Index to 4th Volume 769-771

Please note that the November issue's Contents are as printed,
although the issue does have more articles than stated.

Also, the illustrations are shown in the correct issue, but may
be in a slightly different order than that listed.